Then Again

by Rick Boling

  “Wow, Hoss,” she said, “Is that the place?”

  “Holy shit,” Ellie said. “You don’t go on ‘til, what, 3:00?”

  It was only 12:15, but the parking lot was already overflowing and a line had begun to form at the main entrance.

  “Sorry, gang,” I said. “I tried to keep it as quiet as I could, but I guess word got around.” Surprisingly, there were no complaints, only a few sardonic groans and an elbow in the ribs from Ellie.

  “Don’t be so modest, bud,” Jimmy said. “From what we’ve heard, this is pretty much the norm when you’re performing.”

  If it had been 2:30, I might have agreed with him, but with nearly three hours to go, I knew we were looking at a potential human horde. “Not really,” I said. “I’ve been drawing pretty good crowds, but this looks like the beginnings of a mob.”

  “You might be right about that,” Jackson said. “And considering the location, they’re probably only interested in seeing one of us.”

  Everyone turned and looked at Patsy.

  “I doubt that,” she said. “You and Sarah are international superstars, I’m just an old country girl with a few hits that never crossed over.” Everyone started to protest, but Patsy held up a hand. “I appreciate your support, kids, but let’s not waste time arguing the point. What I’m thinking is that we should swallow our pride and give ‘em a thrill. With all the hoopla they’re liable to wreck the place if we don’t. How ‘bout it, Rich? Wanna try a duet?”

  “Got a better idea,” I said, grabbing Ellie around the shoulders and squeezing. “Since Ellie’s here, why don’t you two do your famous phone duet of Crazy?”

  “Oh, no,” Ellie screeched. “I haven’t sung a note in years.”

  “Not so,” said Jackson. “I hear you singing in the shower every morning.”

  The argument continued as we exited the limo and snuck in the side door of the restaurant. Ellie had reserved us a private room so we wouldn’t be bothered, and while we ate, we debated who was going to do what. Before we settled anything, I asked the waitress to bring me a phone so I could call the club. When Robin came on the line, I listened to her repeated apologies, then told her we were talking about possibly working up something that would satisfy the fans.

  “Listen,” she said, “the fire marshal has already been here, and we’re going to have to limit the crowd or they’ll shut us down. So it’s not like you’ll be dealing with a thousand deranged groupies or anything. Plus, I called in a few favors, and there will be at least a dozen off-duty cops here to control things and make sure you guys get inside without having your clothes torn off. I really appreciate this, Rich. It’s going to do wonders for us—the publicity, I mean.”

  After I hung up we kicked around some more ideas, and before long, instead of grumbling, everyone was looking at the situation as an opportunity to have some fun.

  “Wish we’d brought our instruments,” Kenny said. “We could have a reunion of the old studio group.”

  “Well,” I said, “there’s a cheap Pearl drum kit and an old Baldwin upright on the stage. And I’ve got a Korg PE-1000 keyboard and a vintage Strat back at the cabin. I know you’re a Gibson man, but …” Kenny and I had been arguing the comparative merits of Fender over Gibson for years.

  “No sweat,” he said. “Haven’t touched a Fender since I grew a brain and came to my senses, but I guess I can make do.”

  “What about a bass?” Sam asked.

  “Don’t know,” I said. “If it wasn’t Sunday, we could run into the city and buy one. But … wait a minute.”

  I called Robin back and had to wait several minutes for her to get to the phone. “Sorry about that,” she said, catching her breath. “Things are getting a little crazy here.”

  “I can imagine,” I said. “Hey, You couldn’t’ rustle us up a bass guitar, could you?”

  “I sure could,” she said. “In fact, I’ve got a Fender Precision and a Bassman amp in the back room. I’m holding them for a friend who happens to be vacationing in the county jail at the moment. The strings are a little old, but I’ve kept them oiled, so they shouldn’t be too bad.”

  “Great!” I said. “Now here’s what I want you to do …”

  I told her to move one of the big, round restaurant tables down to the lower level and set it up in front of the stage, then have somebody get the bass and amp up and running. “But the most important thing,” I said, “is I want you to make a deal with the audience. Tell them Sarah and Patsy and Jackson had hoped to relax and watch the show without being bothered, but that won’t be possible without some cooperation. So the deal is this: they’ve consented to do a few songs on the condition that afterward they’ll be left in peace. Say that if we have to we can station some cops around the table, though we’re hoping that won’t be necessary.”

  “Right,” she said. “Tell you what, I’ll arrange things so that only our most loyal regulars are seated near the table, and I’ll make it clear that any shenanigans will result in a six-month ban from the club.”

  “Sounds good. Make sure the curtains are closed and have the cops watch for a stretch limo. We’ll pull around back and come in through the service entrance. We’ve got to run up to my place first, but we should still be able to make it before three.”

  We would all look back on that evening as one of the most enjoyable musical experiences of our lives. Because it was totally impromptu, the audience—which was minuscule in comparison to what the three stars were used to—had no preconceived expectations, so we could have screwed up royally without fear of undue criticism. As it turned out, the lack of pressure created a uniquely relaxed atmosphere that allowed us to be spontaneous and uninhibited, resulting in what would later be described by one of the reporters who managed to sneak in as a once-in-a-lifetime, superstar jam session.

  Imagine paying nothing (other than the standard, two-drink minimum) to see Jackson Browne, Patsy Cline, and Miss Sarah Love on the same bill, backed up by some of the most talented studio musicians ever assembled. Before we finished our lunch, Sam had committed to playing bass; and—after a lot of ragging—Ellie gave in and agreed to sing. With Sam on bass, Jimmy on drums, Kenny on electric, me on acoustic, and Billy on the Korg, all backing up Jackson, Sarah, Patsy and Ellie on vocals, we had the equivalent of a supergroup.

  We didn’t have any idea what we were going to play, but after everyone tuned up, Jackson sat down at the piano and started pounding out the opening chords to Running on Empty. And as Robin pulled the curtain, we all joined in one-by-one, until the tiny stage was rocking like a calliope on steroids. The three ladies handled the background vocals as if they’d been singing together for years, and by the time Kenny was tearing the neck off the Strat with the final, screaming guitar lead, everyone in the club was on their feet.

  The applause was thunderous, but Jackson quieted them with a smooth key-and-tempo-change, improvising a lead-in to Sunday Morning Sentinel. Everyone immediately picked up on the unexpected maneuver, and we pulled off a seamless transition between the two songs, while Jackson and Sarah sang the opening lines to another round of spontaneous applause. The moment they finished the final verse, Billy took over on the Korg, sliding into the intro for Crazy without missing a beat. Kenny did a flawless duplication of the original guitar part, and I added a polyphonic counterpoint on the Ramirez to complement Patsy and Ellie’s duet. Doris and I had heard Ellie sing her part many times over the phone, but that couldn’t begin to compare to hearing it in its full harmonic glory. Not only was it beautiful, the emotions it stirred brought back memories of those carefree early days with Doris.

  Next, it was Sarah’s turn, and by the time she finished the bluesy I Think I’m Ready, you could tell by the sniffles and coughs that accompanied the loud ovation there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.

  On and on we went, linking song after song with elaborate melodic turnarounds, even between the most complicated arrangements. We continued far beyond the standard set length of forty-fiv
e minutes, sometimes adding prolonged improvisational solos and new twists on familiar hits. But after ninety minutes of non-stop playing, everyone was exhausted and we were beginning to wind down. Then, as if we hadn’t already exploited every possible ounce of drama, Jackson decided we should end with his famous tribute to the unsung heroes of life on the road. Slowing things down, he proceeded to turn what had been a loud, raucous medley into a gentle piano solo, setting the stage for his dual anthem dedicated to roadies and fans.

  Performed live, The Load Out and Stay were arguably the most popular of his many hits, and when the audience recognized the opening chords, they immediately rose to their feet, screaming and clapping. They remained standing throughout, and when Sarah ended with an imitation of Maurice William’s soaring falsetto vocal on Stay, the walls literally shook with applause. Billy did an incredible interpretation of the final sax solo on the Korg, and as we thanked the crowd over a long fadeout, I signaled Robin to draw the curtains.

  Undeterred by our attempt at a finale, the crowd continued clapping, stomping, and yelling “Encore.” And, after five minutes of this seemingly tireless pandemonium, I realized we were going to have to do at least one more song.

  Everyone seemed to be waiting for me to make a decision, and it was Ellie who finally spoke up. “You have to sing something, Dad,” she said. “You’re the only one who hasn’t.”

  “I’m the only one who doesn’t have a hit,” I said. “Besides, I’ve got at least three more sets to do, so it’s not like they’re going to miss anything of mine.”

  “One set,” Robin said from the wings. “You guys have already played nearly two hours straight, and it’s almost 5:00 anyway. I’m going to have a hard enough time clearing the place out as it is, so I’d like to wind things up early. Play one more song to placate them, take a thirty-minute break, then Rix can do a forty-five-minute set. Meanwhile, I’ll have somebody find Benny and get him in here to work the piano bar. That should calm things down so I can close up and get out of here at a reasonable hour.”

  Robin’s Song! It was Aurélie whispering in my brain again. After blowing them away with that medley, you’re going to need something awesome to follow up with, and it’s the only song of yours they haven’t heard.

  I was still reluctant. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go public with the song—I’d already decided to include it on my first album—but it was a love song, and I was afraid Robin would get the wrong impression. Plus, with the crowd this pumped up, I wasn’t sure a slow tearjerker would placate them.

  “Dad?” Ellie said.

  The noise had not abated, so I made a decision. “Okay,” I said, turning to Jimmy. “This is a new one, slow, soft, so brushes only. In fact, I should probably do the first verse alone. It’s a simple chord arrangement everyone should be able to pick up on. There’s a build on each chorus, but a fade as we approach—oh, hell, I don’t need to tell you guys anything. Just do whatever feels right.”

  I pulled my stool over to center stage and signaled Robin to open the curtains. As they parted, the audience noise faded to a restless murmur.

  “That was something else, wasn’t it?” I said as I tuned a couple of strings.

  “Damned right it was!” somebody yelled. This was followed by a chorus of agreement and another round of cheers and whistles.

  “Tell you what,” I said, after things calmed down, “as you might imagine, we’re all pretty worn out up here, but because you’ve been so nice, we’re going to do one more song. Only one, though, and then we need to let these folks relax for a while.”

  The few scattered protests quickly died out as I began to play the intro to Robin’s Song.

  “Anyway, since y’all have been bugging me about when I’m going to record some of my music, I wanted you to be the first to know that I will be releasing an album in September.” This started up the hoots and catcalls again, which surprised me. “If I had my druthers,” I said, “this is one of the songs I’d like to release as a single. But before I play it for you, I want you to put your hands together for our lovely hostess.” I turned to where Robin stood behind the curtain. “Come on out here, Robin.” She gave me a quizzical look, putting her hand to her chest as if to say “Me?” When she didn’t move, Ellie grabbed her by the hand and led her out to center stage.

  “Of course we all love Miss Robin here,” I said. “And I want you to know that if it hadn’t been for her, the extraordinary show you just witnessed would never have happened.” The applause was so loud I had to yell to quiet them. “Also, I should tell you that I owe her a special debt of gratitude for giving me the opportunity to work here at the Orchid and use y’all as a test audience for my music.” The roar that followed lasted a full minute. “So,” I said after they settled down, “I wrote this song as a kind of thank-you note to her, and I wanted all my friends here to be the first to hear it.”

  The pandemonium resumed, but when they realized they wouldn’t be able to hear the music, it faded as if someone had turned down a master volume control. In the ensuing silence, I played the last few notes of the intro and began to sing.

  Halfway through the first verse, Jackson added a soft, tinkling piano part, and soon everyone had joined in, sweetening the arrangement with vocal and instrumental contributions that enhanced the emotional impact without drawing attention away from the simple, poignant lyrics.

  I watched Robin’s face first turn scarlet with embarrassment then slowly lose its color as the shock melted into a kind of fascinated wonder. By the time I got to the closing verse that wonder had turned to melancholy sadness, and as the final guitar notes faded, an eerie stillness fell over the room. Several seconds passed before a single handclap lit the fuse of pent-up emotion and ignited the air with a deafening ovation.

  The rest of the evening turned out to be surprisingly calm. Even though the standing-room crowd remained, everyone seemed to remember the promise they’d made, keeping their distance from us while straining to watch our every move from afar. For the first time I could remember, I was thankful the World Wide Web and smartphones had yet to be invented, or the news, accompanied by dozens of cell-phone photos, would have been spread to every media outlet in Atlanta. There was an occasional flash from a few cameras smuggled in by customers, but no one approached to ask for a pose. Autograph requests were allowed if delivered by waitstaff, but the three stars were so used to this, they hardly seemed to notice, absentmindedly signing napkins and autograph books without so much as a pause in their conversations.

  After the break, I returned to the stage and went into my now-familiar routine, interspersing humor and stories with several of the songs I planned to include on my debut album. The reception was typically warm, with the most enthusiastic response always coming from the round table. Robin had taken my empty seat, ordering free drinks and food for all and basking in the reflected limelight.

  There was much moaning and complaining when she announced that the club would be closing early, but the off-duty cops handled the situation with class, easing stragglers out the doors and maintaining a vigil until the parking lot was cleared. Ellie had booked rooms at the Ritz Carlton in Atlanta, and rather than have them take the time to drive me all the way back to the cabin, I said I would call a cab. This was met with a half-hearted protest, but everyone was so tired and sated with food and drink, the objections faded quickly. They were scheduled to fly out in the morning, so we said our goodbyes in the parking lot, and Robin and I watched the limo disappear into the night.

  A rumble of thunder signaled an oncoming summer storm, and we hurried back to the entrance, ducking under the portico for shelter.

  “Is she the one?” Robin asked as we watched the wind whip sheets of rain across the empty lot.

  “Is who the what?” I said

  “That pretty young singer. Ellie, isn’t it? I was just wondering if she was the ‘someone else in the picture now.’”

  “My God, woman,” I said. “Do you think I’m a cradle rob
ber?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “She’s not that young and you’re not that old. Besides, being who you are, you’re bound to have tons of young singers clamoring for your attention.”

  “What if I told you she wasn’t a singer, at least not professionally?”

  “I’d find that pretty hard to believe after hearing her voice.”

  “Okay, what if I told you she was an international concert promoter, in charge of the Millennium Foundation’s worldwide hunger tour? And that she’s engaged to Mr. Jackson Browne?”

  “I’d say you were pulling my leg,” she said.

  “Well, since we’re on a roll here, what if I told you she was my daughter?”

  “More leg pulling. You’re not old enough to be her father.”

  I thought about toying with her a little longer but decided against it. “Her mother and I were married when I was a teenager,” I said. “And I am not pulling your leg. She and Jackson are engaged and she is the principal promoter—along with David Geffen—for the Millennium Foundation’s concert tours.”

  She grabbed my arm and spun me around so she could see my face in the dim light of the entrance. As she examined my eyes, I remembered how—in my former life—she had seen through my feeble attempt at deception. The memory brought a twinge of pain, but this time I was telling the truth, and I was betting she could see that as easily as her twin had detected my dishonesty.

  “You’re serious,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “You never told me you were married.”

  “I’m not. Not anymore. Doris passed away last December.”

  “Oh my God,” she said, putting a hand to her cheek. “I … I am so sorry. But I thought—”

  “That was part of the Rix Vaughn story. Before you knew who I was.”

  “I feel like such an idiot,” she said, staring out into the rain. “I hope it wasn’t … I mean, did she—?”

  “It was an accident. A bizarre thing, too complicated to explain.” I was getting myself backed into a corner, and I needed to change the subject. “So,” I said, “what did you think of the song?”